


midnight hours (falling apart)

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Promised Day, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and that's still a child, because im back to parental after getting that sweet romance out of my system, can't even tag it as past bc he's fifteen, ling yao needs a hug, r-yed shippers not welcome here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: During a diplomatic mission to Xing, Roy sees signs of something worrying, and gives the newly-named Heir to the throne an out if he ever needs one.Five months later, Ling Yao knocks on his door in the middle of the night, and proceeds to shatter.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Ling Yao, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Ling Yao
Comments: 161
Kudos: 238





	1. open up

It's three in the morning when someone starts pounding on the door. Roy bolts awake, instinctively going for his gloves as the sound reverberates through his apartment, Riza snapping up next to him with her hand on the pistol she keeps under her pillow. Later, he'd be able to reflect on how ridiculous they looked in the moment, but...well, generally things don't end well when someone starts banging on your door in the middle of the night. Or early hours of the morning, as it were.

He motions for Riza to stay in the foyer as he reaches the door, pausing before he touches the handle--and then freezing when he hears gasping, shuddering sobs, and a child's voice begging over and over, _pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_...

He should be wary. Even with Envy gone, he should be more careful. He should know better than anyone how children can be used as pawns, as weapons.

Maybe that's why he opens the door, or maybe it's just how desperate and miserable the voice on the other side of the door sounds. Either way, he's not prepared for what he sees—for frightened, red-rimmed brown eyes to meet his and scarred, calloused hands clutching at tattered silk robes, the edges scorched and torn and fraying.

Ling Yao stares up at him, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, arms wrapped around himself like he's trying to hold himself together, before collapsing to his knees and sobbing.

Roy doesn't know why he's here, but _why_ isn't as important as getting the terrified, crying kid out of the cold. "Holy shit," he breathes, kneeling down in front of him. Ling cries even harder, his breath hitching painfully, and he winces— _not the best thing to say, huh?_ "Hey, no—c'mere, kiddo, it's okay." He glances over his shoulder at Riza, but her weapon is already hidden again and she's got a blanket out and waiting—before whipping back around to Ling in alarm as a retching sound follows the sobs. Ling blinks up at him for a moment, looking as stunned and horrified as Roy feels, sick dripping down his chin and puddling on the landing, before his face crumples and he curls in on himself, sobbing even harder than before.

 _Oh, shit._ He scoops him up--and oh, hell, the kid is light, too light, it's like lifting a damn _bird_ , all hollow bones and easily breakable--and carries him inside, nudging the door shut with his hip. He'll wash the stoop in the morning or something. First priority: scared, sick child. "Lieutenant, do you mind running a bath for him—sweetheart, do you want a bath or a shower?"

Ling hiccups, scrubbing at his face with shaking hands—one of them is bandaged, Roy notices, and something roars in his chest, full of rage and a strange protectiveness—before shaking his head wordlessly and burying his face in his shoulder with another miserable sob. "Bath it is," he murmurs, nodding gratefully to Riza as she inclines her head and pads away. "Oh—shhh, sweetheart, I know. I know. But you're gonna make yourself sick again, and that's not gonna feel good, okay?" He rubs his back gently, settling down on the couch. Distantly, he realizes that he sounds like he's talking to a much smaller child—but he doesn't really _care_. The kid showed up on his doorstep when he was supposed to be across the damn desert, crying and scared, so Roy is gonna take care of him.

Brown eyes peek out at him after a moment, wide and wary, and he swears the kid has never looked so _young._ Hell, he doesn’t even know how old he is, not really. They met so briefly and in such tense, dangerous circumstances that he hadn’t gotten much of an impression beyond “strong, capable, clever”. And then Fuhrer Grumman had sent him to begin work on a new treaty with the empire of Xing as the new Heir was being selected, and he’d seen the kid again.

If he was anyone but Chris Mustang’s son, he wouldn’t have recognized it—but she taught him well, and he did, and he’d seen that the kid was scared out of his _mind._ Caught tiny flinches and imperceptible tremors, the way he curled in on himself ever so slightly under the emperor’s scrutiny or lean away from his fellow princes and princesses when they spoke with him—and saw how absolutely terrified he was when they stepped away, whatever veiled threats they’d left him with weighing heavy on his mind.

He hadn’t been sure what to do, then—surely it wasn’t his place to interfere, not with something of this magnitude. If he was misreading it, they could end up in another war right after they’d barely won the last. And from what little he knew of his mother’s culture, duty to family often came before all. To leave was to betray them, to fail them was inconceivable. Family ties were vital, that he could understand, but _these_ ties seemed to be…poisonous. Ling was clinging to them and yet scared of everything they could do to him, while the position he’d fought so hard to claim came closer and closer to trapping him entirely.

But he couldn’t leave him there. Not when he was clearly drowning, and no one was going to step in and save him. So he’d quietly convinced Lan Fan (who seemed equally worried for her friend) to slip Ling a piece of paper with a phone number and an address, promising him a safe place if he ever needed it. He’d gone back to Amestris without knowing if he’d ever received it, and assuming he wouldn’t hear from him.

It seems he did, though, because now the prince is shaking in his arms, sniffling quietly and trembling. He keeps rubbing his shoulders gently, humming—he doesn’t know if the kid’s in shock, or just panicking, or somewhere in between, but the contact seems to be helping a bit, and so does the humming. _Well, at least I’m not entirely useless in this department._ “When did you get here, kiddo?” He doubts that he’s here just to see him—maybe Xing sent their own delegation, though he’s certain he would have heard about it at some point.

Ling’s whole body shudders violently, and he instantly regrets asking as he gasps out, “L-left—desert—promised I could—I could come—you _promised,”_ he begs, his voice cracking as his hands tighten in Roy’s shirt, his eyes wild as he stares up at him. Like he’s scared Roy will throw him out, like he’ll _hurt him_ on top of all this pain and fear he’s dealing with. The very idea of it is enough to make him want to kill whoever made this kid so afraid of people, so certain that he was going to be hurt, but he pushes it aside because _he crossed the desert on his own just to get here._ It’s hard enough going in groups with the proper equipment; he can hardly imagine how terrifying it must be alone. The kid’s wearing silks that he recognizes as royal robes, and shivering, and his heart sinks. _Did he just—run into the Great Desert? What_ happened _to him?_

“I did,” he confirms, shifting so that his hold on him is a little more secure, a little more comforting. “You can stay as long as you like, Ling.” _Oh, holy shit. Holy shit. Did I just acquire a child? I—fuck. I guess so._ “Do you wanna tell me what happened, bud—”

_“No!”_

He winces at the vehemence and _fear_ in the word, stroking his hair gently as Ling buries his face in his shoulder again. “Okay, okay—you don’t have to. I’ll be right here to listen whenever you’re ready.”

He glances up as footsteps approach, meeting Riza’s eyes as she halts a few steps away. Her eyes soften when she sees Ling, and her voice is gentle as she says, “The bath is ready, Ling, if you feel well enough to go in on your own.”

Ling hiccups, his face still tucked into Roy’s shoulder, before pushing himself to his feet. Roy stands when he sees him wobble unsteadily, before hiding a sigh of relief when he manages to get his bearings—and then blinking as Ling glances back at them, shifting anxiously. “W-where—where’s—”

 _Oh—crap, right, he’s never been here before._ “Down the hall, first door on the right,” he instructs gently, and Ling nods shakily before shuffling out of the room. He listens carefully, and blows out a soft breath of relief when he hears the door click shut. _Found it alright, then._ “God, poor kid,” he mutters, raking his fingers through his hair as Riza sighs quietly. “What the fuck _happened_ to him?”

“I don’t know any more than you do, sir,” she reminds him, before shaking her head, her eyes flashing a vicious sort of rage, a Drachman winter in amber and fawn-brown—and distantly he remembers Berthold Hawkeye, remembers another father who used his children as pawns and not as people, who treated them as weapons of his own creation. “But we’re not letting him go back there. Are we?”

Roy doesn’t even think about political ramifications, about how this could be seen as them kidnapping the crown prince of Xing. Doesn’t think about anything but the abused kid that showed up on his doorstep, who’s asking for _help,_ who’s absolutely lost and terrified. _“Hell no,”_ he says fiercely. Plans to make sure they don’t end up in another war because of this will come later. Ling takes priority right now.

He wonders if the kid has taken priority in anyone’s life, ever—besides his shadow, and the late warrior and homunculus who gave their lives protecting him. Wonders how many people have cared about him selflessly, unconditionally. Wonders how many of those people have actually been allowed to care for him, to _take care of him._

Not many, he concludes after a moment, and it _hurts—_ and he can’t help comparing him to Ed. Ed, who for all his insistence that he didn’t need help, knew he could fall back on him or Riza or Havoc or his teacher. Who has a support system that Roy is privileged enough to be considered part of.

Ling…he doesn’t think Ling has that—that he had one at all, outside of Fu and Lan Fan, who (as far as he recalls) are generally supposed to defer to him as their leader. He doesn’t know enough about his past to say, but there’s something in him that’s cut wide-open and bleeding, desperate to be cared for. There’s a sort of fragility to it—like he’s on the verge of shattering and one wrong move could break him completely.

Roy won’t send him back to the people who did that to him. He refuses. He doesn’t care what it takes to keep him safe, from them, from the military, from whoever might target him. There’s a kid that’s hurting, and he won’t send him back to the people who hurt him. Simple as that.

“Hell no,” he repeats quietly after a moment. “He’s not going back there.”

Riza nods sharply, satisfied. “He stays with us, then?”

 _Us._ For a moment, he revels in that—that there’s an _us,_ that the unspoken bond between them has become a little more spoken, that this space is theirs and not just his. “Of course. We have an extra room, and the couch pulls out, so wherever he feels most comfortable will be his space for as long as he wants it.”

“You know he’ll choose the couch,” she points out after a moment, and he grimaces, because it’s likely true. He’s already scared that Roy is going to throw him out; if he gives him the choice here, he’s going to choose what he thinks will make him keep him around the longest. He has no doubt that Ling doesn’t believe him about letting him stay as long as he wants—that’s a level of trust he has to earn. And he will. “Just offer him the bedroom. Don’t even make the couch an option.”

“You’re right.” He pauses after a moment, before smiling faintly. “Think we can get him to decorate it?”

Riza’s expression softens, and she casts a fond look down the hall. “He might take a bit of convincing, but I think so. Maybe we should start small, though—new sheets and pillowcases, books…he’s going to need new clothes, too. I don’t think he brought anything with him.”

He nods, before blinking. “Shit,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Hold on, I gotta get him some clothes for when he’s done in the bath.” Riza chuckles wryly, and he makes a face before ducking out of the room. He pauses in front of the bathroom door, nodding to himself when he doesn’t hear anything worrying, before hurrying down to his bedroom and yanking a t-shirt and sweatpants out of the drawers. He claps, sizing them down a bit to fit the kid, before folding them back up and placing them outside the door.

“Ling,” he calls softly, knocking on the door; there’s a little squeak and the sound of water sloshing, and he winces as the door creaks open and dark eyes peek out at him warily. “I got you some clothes, kiddo. You can come out whenever you’re ready and we’ll get you tucked in, okay?”

Ling nods, the movement quick and uncertain, and whispers a _“Thank you,”_ before closing the door again. Roy nods, satisfied, and turns to head back into the living room; before he can leave the hall, though, the door creaks open and the prince steps out. His hair is a tangled mess, the shirt already growing dark with water, and everything’s a little big on him despite the sizing-down. There’s scars Roy’s never seen before on his arms and shoulders and hands, and a sunburn creeping up the side of his neck, blistering and red against bronze skin; it looks _painful,_ and Roy wonders again how he even survived the desert. If all of him made it out alright. If any of him did.

“I—I left the robes,” Ling says after a moment, his voice unbearably small and uncertain. “I can move them if you want. I—I can.”

Roy’s heart twists at how unsure he seems, so different from the young ruler who took down a homunculus without flinching and took on the power of one without hesitation. But whatever happened to him there either shattered something new in him, or broke his masks away until there was nothing left to hide the frightened child he really is. He suspects it’s the latter, but it’s not his place to ask or chase Ling away by demanding answers. “Leave them there, kiddo. I’ll take care of it. You need to get some aloe for your neck and then get some sleep, okay? We’ll deal with everything else in the morning.”

Ling blinks slowly, face scrunching up in confusion for a moment, before nodding hesitantly. Roy ducks into the bathroom to grab the sunburn lotion, before gently herding him toward the guest room before he can try to head for the sofa. He nudges the door to the guest room open, before nodding to it. “You can head on in,” he says gently. “This is yours for as long as you need it.”

It’s nothing special—about the size of a dorm room, with a full bed and an outdated plush armchair and closet, clean and tidy, but plain—but Ling stares at it almost reverently. Roy pushes away the flare of wrath at the realization, waiting patiently for him to make his way over to the bed and sit on the edge of it (hesitantly, awkwardly, like he isn’t sure it’s really his or that he even deserves to have it). “Do you need any help with the sunburn, kiddo?”

Ling jolts, like he wasn’t expecting the question—and Roy knows that he likely _wasn’t_ expecting it, that he isn’t expecting to actually be cared for, but it still hurts. “I—I can do it—”

“That’s not what I asked, buddy.” His voice comes out gentle, but firm, and he’s reminded vaguely of—of _Maes._ There’s a sharp pang of grief that twists in his chest, dulling slowly with time, but he pushes it away. “Do you want me to help you?”

Ling stares at him, his lower lip wobbling, before jerking his head in a slight nod. Roy hums quietly in acknowledgement, sitting next to him and pooling some of the lotion in one hand. “I’m going to move your hair out of the way, alright?” He waits for Ling’s whispered assent before gently pulling dark hair over his left shoulder, smoothing the lotion over the blistered, peeling skin along his neck. Ling flinches at the touch at first, before relaxing. Roy tries not to show the anger he feels at the little marks and scars twisting beneath the burn, keeping the movements gentle and soothing—and when he glances at him once he’s done, the kid looks half-asleep already, his body slumped slightly as he blinks hazily at him.

“I think someone’s tired, huh?” he murmurs, and Ling blinks tiredly up at him. He nearly laughs when the prince lets out a soft, childish little whine, reaching up to scrub at his eyes with one hand, before tugging the sheets back. “I know, buddy, I know.”

They’ll talk more in the morning—figure all of this out, how to keep him safe, what drove him here, what has him so frightened that he can barely even speak. But right now…

Right now, Ling is safe, and that’s all Roy needs to know.


	2. hold on to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza Hawkeye goes to wake up her and Roy's new houseguest. Some part of her still expects to see the prince and not the child, expects the previous night to have been a fluke.
> 
> Except it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...now this is multichapter, i guess. i hope you guys enjoy it! it's becoming a very fun (if angsty) little 'verse to write.

On her own, Riza is usually an early riser. It’s a bit different when you have a tired octopus of an alchemist wrapped around you—much harder to get up, and much easier to drift off again before forcing yourself to wake up and be productive. Such is the case today, especially after such an eventful night—morning? Night, she decides; even if it was technically an early morning event, it was dark enough out that it qualified. She doesn’t want to get up, wants to spend this rare day off being lazy (and being _held;_ no matter how much she teases Roy about his tendency to cling to her in his sleep, it’s truly endearing). She wakes three times after that midnight interruption—once at six, once at eight, and…well, the third time, she rolls over and elbows Roy lightly in the chest.

There’s a low, irritated grumbling, and she laughs softly before rolling over. “It’s ten o’clock, Roy,” she points out softly, savoring the use of his first name. It had been a lie to fool Envy five months ago, but now it’s a truth she holds near and dear to her chest. “We have business to take care of.” She doesn’t deserve this peace, she knows she doesn’t, but she holds onto it anyway—holds onto it for the people she loves, for the Elrics and the Rockbells and the innocents caught up in the war. The _children_ caught up in it.

Like the child currently hiding out in their guest room. The child who showed up on their doorstep last night, crying and hurt and begging to be let in. A child who Riza admittedly doesn’t know that well outside of helping him in battle and then losing track of both him and Ed for several months. When she’d seen him again, she’d only vaguely recognized him as he headed off to Xing with his guard (who hadn’t been there last night, she realizes worriedly), and then the next time she’d seen him he was being crowned the Heir to the Xingese empire. Now he’s here, and he’s so unbelievably fragile, and she’s kicking herself a bit for not seeing what Roy saw.

He’s here now, though. He’s here, and whatever demons he’s running from, Riza will protect him from. She’s a damn good shot, after all.

She thinks Roy might end up causing an incident with Xing, though. Not that she can blame him. “Roy,” she repeats, nudging him again. “We have a _guest_ to take care of, remember?”

Roy’s dark eyes open just a sliver—and then go wide. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

She does her best not to laugh, wriggling free of his arms and getting to her feet. “That’s what I thought,” she teases lightly, grabbing her bathrobe from the hook on the closet door and sweeping it around herself. “Do you want to go check on him or should I?” She hadn’t spoken to him much last night, hadn’t spoken to him _much_ ever. That, she expects, will change given that he’s now staying here with them, but it also might mean he’ll be more comfortable seeing Roy after waking up.

Roy yawns as he sits up, one hand reaching up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck; Riza’s eyes catch on the scarring over two direct points—and she remembers, for a heartbeat, twin blades slamming into his hands, a circle activated through no choice of his own, his sight stolen away from him. Remembers later in the hospital, their quiet discussion— _do I use the Stone? Do I run away? Is it worth it?_ before his final choice to use it. Remembers almost losing him, and herself—

She knows that this will end eventually. She knows that this road results in their deaths, their executions. But there’s time, before then—time to rebuild whatever she can. There’s no atoning for what she’s done, but there’s still good she can do until she’s tried and executed, whether it happens in the next few years or next few decades. No matter what happens, no matter how stained her hands are with the blood of innocent lives, there is still _some good_ she can do.

Maybe it’s selfish to consider this part of it—but it’s no more selfish that the remnants of that child in her mind, aching for her father to love her as a father is supposed to love his children. The child that she sees reflected in Ling Yao, so hurt and afraid and lost. She doesn’t know what happened, she doesn’t know what chased him all the way here, but there’s _something_ in him that reminds her of that little girl who’d go from the perfect daughter to a wild little thing and back again under her father’s eye.

“You can go check on him, if you want,” Roy says, pulling her out of her thoughts. “One of us has to start breakfast.” The playful smile he shoots her falters, something dark and full of quiet fury storming in his eyes. “…He probably hasn’t eaten well in a while.”

Riza can only take that at face value—Roy was the one to hold him, to carry him over the threshold and soothe him in his arms—but she remembers how gaunt that tearstained face seemed, how small and _fragile_ he looked. “Don’t burn the house down,” she says instead of bringing that up—she’s sure that Roy is already on the verge of hunting down everything that hurt this child. Digging in too deeply to the what-ifs without knowing what really happened will only lead to rash decisions, and in a matter of international politics (she hates describing this as politics, the fleeing of a terrified, hurt _child_ from their home and into a safe place as politics, but Ling Yao is the crown prince and they’re soldiers and there will always, _always_ be politics—but the politics don’t matter nearly as much as Ling does, and he’s not going back there come hell or high water), rash decisions can be a death sentence.

Roy snorts softly, that vicious rage flickering and burning out for just a moment. “Keep talking like that and I won’t leave you any waffles.”

“Like you even knew how to operate the waffle-maker until a year ago.”

“And now my waffles are _fantastic,_ your point?”

Riza shakes her head at him in amusement, pulling the robe on and tying it neatly as she pads toward the door. “Of course, _sir,”_ she drawls, the familiar word teasing in a way she’d never dared to be mere months ago. She leaves the room to the sound of his laughter, a familiar fondness settling warm and light in her chest as she makes her way to the guest room.

She raps lightly on the door, pausing for a moment in concern when there’s no response. “Ling?” she calls softly, knocking again. _Maybe he’s still asleep?_ She turns the handle—not locked, thankfully; normally she wouldn’t enter the room without permission, but she’s worried—before pushing the door open. “Darling, it’s—oh.”

Ling stares up at her from where he’s huddled on the floor, wrapped loosely in sheets and blankets. His hair is a wild mess, far from the neatly groomed ponytail she recalls it being in when she last saw him, tangled and snarled into a bird’s nest that reminds her of waking up after long missions in utter disarray. _He crossed the Great Desert,_ she remembers, _not much access to that sort of thing out there._ “Why are you on the floor, sweetheart?” she asks softly as big dark eyes stare up at her, wide and a little panicked. She’s not entirely sure why, but—

Well, there was a time where certain tones of voice, certain objects, certain weather would make her feel like her father was looming over her shoulder again, ink and needle in hand. This sudden, visible _fear_ she sees in his eyes, so well hidden before, might be that for him—and she wonders what he sees, what he feels, if it’s his father or something else. Something worse.

“Fell,” Ling mumbles, and his voice is _tiny._ It’s so absolutely wrong coming out of someone so decisive and powerful and sure of himself, but she’s beginning to wonder (more than beginning, really) if it was just a front. “I—I fell. Out of the—the bed.” His fingers curl in the sheets, plucking and twisting at the hem anxiously. “And I just—I didn’t get. Back in.” The words come uneven, staggered and staccato, as though he’s not sure which one of them is going to get him hurt, but he’s certain something is. Certain that he’s not quite safe.

Riza’s heart aches at the thought, even as she nods and sits down in front of him, keeping a small, gentle smile on her face. “It’s a little scary in new places sometimes, isn’t it?” she asks softly. “Things always look stranger in the dark than they really are, and you feel like you have to ask permission for a lot of things.” She isn’t sure why not getting back into bed after falling out would be one of those things, but it is, and she’s not about to mock or insult him for it. Something tells her he’s faced more than enough of that.

Ling blinks up at her, before nodding hesitantly, drawing his knees to his chest after a moment. “Never was scared of the dark before.” His voice comes out in a whisper, barely audible, his shoulders hunched and his arms wrapped around his legs. Making himself smaller, even if he doesn’t seem to realize it. “Just—after Greed d—without—” he shakes his head in frustration, shrinking into the shirt Roy lent him like he can disappear into it and hide. “It got harder,” he says after a moment, and his face scrunches up miserably for a moment. “After the Promised Day.”

Riza’s heart twists, and she moves forward a little bit—and Ling _flinches,_ just a little, but she still sees it and it still _hurts._ “I understand,” she murmurs. Touches to her neck and along that scar still make her twitch, and Roy hates going underground and pure white spaces. “If you want, we can get you a little light or something.”

She doesn’t say “nightlight”, perhaps because she’s so used to dealing with Ed and his swift and vicious blow-ups in the face of being treated as a child, but Ling tilts his head curiously rather than closing off. “A light?” he repeats, his hands loosening in the sheets, his hunched position uncurling a tiny bit. “I…you don’t have to.”

She shrugs. “We want you to have whatever makes you feel more comfortable here. Whether it’s a nightlight or new bedsheets or repainting and redecorating this space from top to bottom.” She pats the hardwood floor with a hand for emphasis when he opens his mouth to protest, looking stunned and _confused_. “This is your room now, darling. _Your_ space. You get to change it however you’d like, even if that means taking a page out of Ed’s book and going for spikes on every wall.”

Ling makes a face at that, and she laughs softly. “I’m not _tacky,”_ he says, like it’s the greatest offense in the world, and she remembers quite clearly that he’s _fifteen._ A ruler, a genius in his own right, but still a fifteen-year-old boy. “And—and I don’t have any way to pay you back.”

“Good, because you don’t have to pay us back.” Her voice is as firm as she hoped it would be, hiding the flash of white-hot rage she feels at the bewildered look on his face. “You’re a child. You’re not responsible for—for _paying_ us for your own space, darling. Roy and I have more than enough to support you for as long as you need it.”

Dark eyes stare up at her, wide and a little glossy, and Ling’s mouth hangs open for a moment before he finally whispers, “Oh.” Like he hadn’t considered that he’d be taken care of besides just getting a roof over his head. Like he didn’t think it was even a possibility.

She knows firsthand what it’s like not to understand kindness that comes freely. To believe that every gift comes with strings attached, that someone will never do something for you simply because they care and don’t want to see you hurt. It _hurts,_ to see her child-self reflected in this quiet, hurting teen’s face. To see him balk when he’s treated well, and watch for the sucker-punch after he’s given any small kindness. It makes her want to hold him and hide him away from the world, to wrap him up in warmth and keep him _safe._ It’s a fierce, overwhelming feeling, so sudden and sharp that it takes her breath away, before curling up bright and wild _._

She’s felt it before, for Ed and Al. But never so quickly, never this wave that crashes down over her and sweeps her off her feet, visceral and shocking. She doesn’t think she can even name it yet, but this…

He’s staying, Riza promises herself, sudden and fierce. She’s not letting him go back to whoever hurt him. She doesn’t care if it means war. She has caused pain to enough children. She will protect this one from harm no matter the cost.

She holds her hand out to him after a moment, getting to her feet. “Come on,” she urges gently. “Roy’s making waffles, and you look like you could use a good meal.”

Ling’s eyes light up momentarily, and she remembers Ed grumbling about how much the prince liked to eat, before calloused, scarred hands slide into hers. She tugs him to his feet with little difficulty (and he looks a little stunned at that; she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s far too light, that she can see why Roy was worrying about his eating habits), squeezing surprisingly delicate fingers comfortingly before heading for the door.

Ling doesn’t drop her hand, doesn’t pull away as they walk toward the kitchen, and she doesn’t, either. If he wants to, she figures, he will.

But if he needs the comfort, if he needs to feel safe, if he needs to feel like someone is holding onto him…

Then Riza won’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, everyone! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and the healthy dose of mama riza we just got (hawkmom? momeye?). next up, we'll probably have some waffles, or shopping (ling can't just borrow roy's stuff forever), or both! leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you all next time <3


	3. baby steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy has breakfast and does some thinking. He arrives at two conclusions: one, he's taking in the crown prince of Xing, and two...he's going to kill the emperor. Probably. Eventually. After Ling stops being so damn skittish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all wanted more, i hope, and here it is

Roy piles three plates with waffles, sticks the rest of the batter into the fridge for later, and surveys his handiwork proudly. Minimal mess—he’ll have to wash the waffle-maker once it cools down, but that’s easy enough—and enough for leftovers, surely. At least on his and Riza’s part. He’s heard Ed grumble about his friend’s appetite before, working it into little anecdotes and stories of his time on the run whenever the old team gets together. Normally it makes him laugh, but in the face of what happened last night, it just makes him worry.

It’s entirely possible that Ling is just a growing teenager with an appetite to match. He might be overreacting, or reading too much into things. But the fainting spells, and the large binges Ed mentioned with longer stretches in between point to something more dire than just _puberty._ Point to some sort of disorder, or illness, or at the very least a kid pushing himself to the point of exhaustion just to wake up, force energy into his body, and do it all again. And then add in the possibility, no matter how small (terrible family situation or not, Ling is still a prince, still one of the higher clans, if he remembers correctly—there should have been enough wealth in the family to manage _food)_ that Ling genuinely _wasn’t getting enough to eat…_

Roy tips a waffle off of his plate and onto Ling’s after a moment. He doesn’t have a big appetite in the morning anyways. Two is more than enough for him.

He glances up as footsteps approach, setting down a fork and knife by each plate before something in his chest goes unbelievably, illogically soft and gooey at the sight before him. Riza shoots him an amused look, before tilting her head toward the kid trailing behind her and clutching her hand like a lifeline. Ling blinks at him, before his face reddens and he ducks behind Riza…despite the fact that he’s a good inch or two taller than her now, and his attempt to hide is utterly unsuccessful. “Morning, kiddo,” he greets, putting the butter dish and a jar of syrup on the table. “How’d you sleep?”

“I slept fine,” Ling answers, peeking over Riza’s shoulder after a moment. “Thank you, Colonel.” His bangs flop into his face, messy and tangled, and Roy sees his face scrunch up briefly in displeasure before smoothing out. Carefully blank. Impossible to read—unless you were raised in a den of thieves for fifteen years and spent the next fifteen learning the delicate dance of death and politics.

Ling is _scared_. Thinks he’s walking on thin ice, that any moment now it’ll crack and he’ll fall into the deep, drowning cold. That he’ll be left alone, forced to return to the place he was fleeing from or disappear into hiding, an outcast on all sides. Roy knows he doesn’t believe them when they say he’s safe, that he can stay here as long as he likes, that their home is always open to him. He knows lies like the back of his hand, grew up on manipulations—except unlike Roy, the lies Ling learned to weave were to protect himself from the people who were supposed to love him and care for him. They’re a survival instinct, and now of _course_ he doesn’t take their words at face value. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s more than willing to prove it through his actions. However many times it takes.

He’s not letting this kid _hurt_ like that anymore. “You’re welcome,” he says, sitting down at his place at the table—though it’s less of a table and more of a little breakfast nook. He doesn’t have a strict “dining room”; he’s never really had enough people over in a formal enough setting to need it. Besides, the nook is cozy, familiar, comforting—and the exact opposite of what he suspects Ling is used to. Which is a damn good thing right now, to be frank. He needs a change of pace, and he has a sneaking suspicion that _comforting, warm, safe_ are things that Ling is very much _not_ used to. “How’s the sunburn doing? We should put more aloe on it after breakfast.”

Ling opens his mouth just a fraction, before shutting it and bobbing his head quickly. “Feels better,” he mumbles, his voice very quiet and small. Roy watches him as he shuffles after Riza, hand still clutched in hers as she sits down across from him. Dark eyes flick nervously between them and the remaining plate, piled high with piping-hot waffles, before he sits. Roy watches him as he hunches his shoulders almost-imperceptibly, gaze downcast— _making himself smaller._ Taking up the least amount of space possible without outwardly showing weakness, a practiced, careful movement. He saw it when he visited Xing, whenever Ling stood in front of the assembled court or the emperor’s hand settled on his shoulders. He knows it’ll take time for Ling to accept that he’s safe here, that he doesn’t have to be afraid to _exist_ around them, but _god_ does he want to snap the emperor’s neck right about now. And his siblings, for that matter—sure, they were all raised in this system of kill or be killed, and logically he knows that it isn’t entirely their faults, but there’s scars on the kid’s arms and terror flickering just below the surface in those dark eyes, and he wants to make sure they can never lay a hand on him again.

He starts cutting into his own waffles, taking a healthy (he’s sure some would argue about the use of healthy in this context, but _whatever)_ dose of syrup and butter and slathering the latter on each waffle. “That’s good, sweetheart, but we still need to make sure it doesn’t get worse, okay?” he points out gently, nudging the syrup toward him. Riza, ever-practical, opts for the fruit bowl and honey, and Ling just… _stares_ down at his plate, and then up at them, blinking slowly. “Take anything you want, kid,” he adds, unsure if that’s the problem or not. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Ling turns a bit red and squeaks, an almost worryingly tiny sound, before hesitantly reaching for the maple syrup. He pours a bit over the waffles, tilting his head at them before cutting into one and taking a bite. Almost immediately, his eyes light up and—

The plate is clean what feels _seconds_ later, and Roy stares in shock and a bit of concern as the kid leans back against the wall. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone inhale food that fast except for when he was in a _warzone_ and no one knew whether they’d survive to eat their next meal. The anecdotes about Ling’s appetite were amusing to hear when he didn’t know the kid well enough to realize they weren’t exaggerations, but now Roy just feels a little horrified—because Ling grew _up_ in a warzone, he realizes. He doesn’t know the details, but he knows about Xing’s ever-present war of succession. He knows it’s dangerous, but with Amestris as the fundamentally corrupt nation it is (they’re changing for the better, thankfully), he didn’t think he had any room to judge.

But seeing Ling in front of him, so quiet and uncertain and scared after just a _few months_ back in the Imperial Court, it _clicks_ in a way it didn’t before. Clicks because Ling is _fifteen years old,_ and has spent every one of those fifteen years striving for a crown he was brought up to seek. Clicks because he was never given a real choice, despite how good his intentions are, despite how _good_ of a leader Roy knows he would be. Clicks because he was raised to be a soldier and a ruler when he’s just a _child,_ clicks because he was able to face down homunculi _alone_ with nothing but his sword and one hand tied behind his back.

Clicks because Ling was raised to be a weapon, and then a king, and he was never, _ever_ allowed to be a child. Because he was born into war, raised in it, with a target on his back from the second he took his first breath.

No wonder he doesn’t understand when they’re gentle, or kind. No wonder he expects to be thrown out the second he makes a mistake, that his plate will be taken away if he doesn’t eat fast enough, that if he’s not _perfect_ he won’t be anything at all.

That anger, that urge to protect this kid and wrap him in blankets and hide him away from the world where nothing can ever hurt him, flares stronger and brighter. “Ling,” he says, and it takes him a moment to keep his voice even, to keep himself from leaping over the table and yanking the kid into a hug at the brief flash of terror across his face. “Are you still hungry, kiddo?”

Ling blinks up at him, looking almost dazed—probably from eating so much so fast (at least, he _hopes_ that’s the situation and not something worse). “N…no,” he answers after a moment, furrowing his eyebrows warily. “Is—is that okay?”

 _Oh, hell._ “Yeah, kiddo, of course it’s okay. No one’s gonna take food away from you or force it down your throat or anything.” He tilts his head, watching his expression carefully—he doesn’t give much away, nothing that people who weren’t raised by con artists (and aren’t con artists in and of themselves) would be able to pick up on. He doesn’t (rationally) blame the chimeras Ling traveled with for not picking up on it, especially since Greed was apparently in control the vast majority of the time; it’s clearly not something Ling wants people to know or even thinks he should struggle with. It just kills him a little inside that he’s so sure people won’t _help_ him, that he won’t be given kindness or affection—and Roy isn’t the most outwardly affectionate person in the world, he’s not Maes and he never will be, but seeing this teenager so uncertain of support makes something sharp and _angry_ twist in his chest _._

And there it is, for just a fraction of a second—shock and fear and _relief._ And that rage in Roy’s chest only burns brighter, because that proves something is wrong, that his appetite isn’t just a product of growing up, that something _happened_ and Ling is still feeling the effects of it even now. He might not even realize how it’s affecting him, but that relief means he expected something, was afraid of something, and Roy somehow subverted it. _What did they do to you? They hurt you—someone hurt you, what did they_ do—

“I’ll get more snacks for later,” he says aloud, cutting up his own waffles. “Feel free to grab something whenever you need food, kid.”

Ling nods, and Roy knows he won’t, that it’ll take time, that he’s going to be walking on eggshells waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him or Riza to lose their tempers. It’ll be a while before he really feels safe here, but the fact that Ling came to them at all—that he _crossed the desert_ somehow, alone and with limited supplies—means that he finds them safer than the Imperial Court. And while that makes him angry, because no child should be afraid of their own home, he’s also _glad._ Glad that Ling knows that they’ll let him stay here, that he’ll be taken care of (even if it’s clear the kid is struggling to wrap his head around what that means). It’s going to be a process. All of this is gonna be a process.

It’ll be worth it, though, if it means he can keep a child from going back to somewhere they’re scared of ( _a child,_ he thinks wryly, so impersonal and general a term—as if he isn’t already getting attached to this kid even though it’s been less than twelve hours). More than worth it, if he never sees that devastation and hopelessness on Ling’s face again. If the kid never feels that alone and afraid again.

“We’re planning on going shopping after this,” Riza’s voice comes, and he glances up at her as she sets a gentle hand on Ling’s shoulder. He flinches imperceptibly, before leaning into the touch with a heartbreaking hesitance. “To get you some sheets and blankets and clothes, and some room decorations too, if you’d like them. Is that alright with you, darling?”

Ling’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t—you don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Roy says firmly, because it’s true, and he’s not going to make the kid wear borrowed clothes _._ If it was some sort of—of vacation situation, then maybe, but Ling is running from something and it’s clear he doesn’t want to go back. And if he’s living here, well, he should have his own things. He should have them regardless, of course, but especially because he has nothing but those stained, tattered robes and golden ornaments (he doesn’t want to think about the rusty stains on them, the iron scent of dried blood). He’s a teenager, which means he needs his own space and his own things and the more Roy can foster an environment where he feels safe and happy, the better. “Don’t worry about money, we have more than enough. You do need clothes, though, and I know the sheets in the guest room are stiff, don’t lie to me.”

Ling stares at him for a moment, before dropping his gaze. “You don’t have to,” he repeats, sounding so lost and confused that it makes something in Roy break just a little bit more. “I don’t…why would you want to? I haven’t done anything for you.”

 _Oh boy._ Roy cursed whoever had come up with equivalent exchange for a moment, cursed whoever had created the idea that something couldn’t be given freely. It had nearly consumed him, consumed the Elrics. This kid wasn’t even an alchemist, but…

“Because you asked for help, and I promised you a safe place to stay,” he answers quietly. “And help doesn’t end at a roof over your head. It might not end for a long time, or ever. I know that. _We_ know that.” He glances at Riza, who nods firmly, giving Ling’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Our home is yours for however long you need it, and so is our _help._ And you’re not a burden for needing it.”

Ling blinks up at him, tears shimmering in his eyes, before he ducks his head and swipes one hand clumsily over them. “O-oh.” A soft, shuddering breath—and then a quiet, “T-thanks, Colonel.”

“Roy,” he corrects lightly, gathering the empty plates. Riza slides him hers wordlessly, nodding slightly as he shoots her a questioning look. “Now let’s get you something to wear out, alright? Don’t worry about the dishes.”

He can tell that Ling isn’t convinced, knows he damn well shouldn’t be after just a few hours. It’s gonna take time, and patience, and kindness.

But at least Roy can say they finally have a little more of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! next up we have the shopping chapter (it's going to be cute, i promise) and some riza pov. i hope you guys have been enjoying it thus far, because i'm really enjoying writing it. leave a comment and a kudos if you did, and i'll see you next time!
> 
> also, i have reopened donation "gifts" in support of blm and black community-led organizations. more information can be found at this post on my tumblr: [donations](https://aliiasinvestigations.tumblr.com/post/630263172675305473/donation-commissions). please share it if you can't donate, and if you're not in any of the fandoms i listed, please donate anyway, or watch the stream-to-donate videos on youtube without skipping ads.


	4. a spoonful of honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza and Roy take Ling shopping for clothes and bedding--and get their new kid a little surprise along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever go one hurt-comfort fic without giving the kiddo in question a stuffed animal? Absolutely not. Perish the thought. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy!

If she thought Ling was skittish around the two of them, it’s a million times worse in the store. Which just makes her want to kill someone even more, frankly, because she’s never seen someone try to hide as much as this—except maybe Elicia when she doesn’t want to meet someone, but she’s grown out of the “hiding-behind-Gracia’s-legs” stage. Ling doesn’t quite seem to have overcome that, though, or is maybe just getting _into_ that, because she doesn’t remember Ed’s stories or her encounters with him previously painting him as anything less than a people person. But right now, he’s ducked behind Riza’s back, his clothes still a little too big despite Roy’s attempts to size them down, and looking about five seconds from bursting into tears or making a break for the rooftops.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Riza doesn’t stop to worry about that, though, because they’re already at the store and Roy is quietly trying to assess what size Ling is as she finds their way to a quieter corner. Ling scoots over to duck behind Roy barely a second after they stop, before glancing up at them (and Riza sees her commanding officer’s eyes go _soft_ , so soft, sees him shift so Ling is a little more hidden from the crowd, a little safer). “Alright,” he says softly. “Do you want to stick with us or go off and explore on your own, buddy?”

Panic flashes across Ling’s face, brief but all-consuming, and Riza very narrowly avoids just—picking him up and marching him back to the apartment to take a nap and read a book and do something calming and quiet. Something that won’t make him feel _afraid._ For her, when she was young, it was going out in the woods, running wild through the village. Ling, though…so much has happened to him in such a short time. He deserves time for quiet, for naps in a cozy bed and mugs of tea and listening to the radio on rainy afternoons. “I—I can,” he says, as if desperate to assure them of his capability. “I can go, I can find—I can go—”

“That’s not what I asked, sweetheart.” Roy’s voice is firm and gentle, and her heart breaks as Ling trembles at the sound of it. “I asked if you wanted to go explore. It’s perfectly fine if you want to just stay with me and Riza and point out what you like.”

Another tiny shudder wracks Ling’s body, before he ducks his head and nods, staring at the ground. Riza leans over and takes his hand; it’s _cold,_ and she rubs his fingers between hers to warm them up. “Do you have any idea what you’d like, darling?”

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze again. There’s embarrassment there, and _shame,_ and something vicious stabs through her at the thought of realization. She’s not very good at needing help either, at not hating herself for needing it. The sight of it in someone so young makes her want to break things. “That’s alright,” she soothes, squeezing his hand lightly. “We can just walk around, and if you like something we’ll get it for you. Okay?”

Ling nods, fingers curling around hers loosely. There’s thin scars along them, broader ones around his palms and wrists, and something in her _snarls—_ but she keeps her face calm as they start perusing the aisles. Roy glances at her, and she nods slightly when Ling’s attention slides toward a stack of shirts folded neatly on a bench. _He’s going to be fine. I’m fine. We just need to take it slow._

He inclines his head in understanding—this is going to be _hard,_ not so much for them as for Ling. Adjusting to having people there for him, to not having to handle everything himself…it’s a huge change, she suspects, from being expected to be the leader of a country. From being raised to have the sole responsibility for millions of lives. Being _taken care of_ after all that must feel strange.

_Well, we’ll just have to keep being there for him, then._

They follow Ling along as he shuffles hesitantly between aisles, his hand still clinging to Riza’s as the other reaches out to graze over fabrics. They’re a far cry from the fine silks and intricately embroidered robes he’d been wearing when he showed up on their doorsteps (even if they were torn and frayed and stained), and she wonders for a moment if maybe they should have looked for something more similar—before blinking as Ling tugs at her hand. “Yes, darling?”

Ling’s eyes widen fractionally at the little term of endearment as if he’s hearing it for the first time, before he averts his gaze. One hand rubs at the sleeve of a large, soft butter-yellow sweater, before he whispers, “I…can I get one of these?” His fingers knot a little more tightly in the sleeve. “Please?”

As if they’re going to walk back on their promise.

“Of course,” she answers, squeezing his hand gently; Roy reaches over and unhooks the sweater, setting it in their basket. Something in Ling seems to relax when he sees it there, and he lets out a quiet, shuddery exhale, before padding along again. She exchanges a look with her commanding officer, pleased— _he’s opening up a little, he starting to realize we aren’t lying—_ before following him as he eyes a thick, cozy-looking flannel.

The rest of the trip goes fairly quickly—Ling gravitates towards _anything_ soft, and they end up coming away with a massive throw blanket patterned with honeycombs as well. She sees him fidgeting with the edges of it as they walk down the street to a reputable (read: luxurious, not that they’re telling Ling that, he’ll worry even more than he already is) bed and home goods seller. He isn’t hiding behind them anymore, though she’s not sure if that’s because he feels better or because he thinks he’s not supposed to, and his hand has moved from clutching hers to being linked with her arm. The new winter coat Roy had thought to grab is wrapped around him—good thing, too, because the late autumn chill is setting in despite the bright sun, and his hands are still _cold._

For a moment—just a fraction of a moment, barely a flicker—Ling stops, and she nearly lurches forward before catching herself and following his gaze. He’s staring up at the window of a…a _toy store,_ she realizes, surprised (but less so than she thought she might be, to be honest). His eyes skate quickly over a stuffed fox in the window display, its tail thick and fluffy and big green eyes carefully embroidered, and she opens her mouth to ask if he wants to head in—before he turns his head away and glances at her nervously. “Didn’t mean to trip you,” he mumbles. “M’sorry.”

_Oh, darling…_ “You have nothing to apologize for. I should have been paying attention,” she says firmly. “Did you want to get anything here, Ling?”

His eyes go round with shock (and _fear,_ she notices worriedly) before he shakes his head. “No—no thank you. Just got distracted.” He hesitates, before asking, “Can…can we go to the other store now? For the—the sheets?”

Riza has a sneaking suspicion that he’s asking more to get out of this conversation than because he’s suddenly accepted that they want to buy him new bedding, but she won’t press the issue right now. Perhaps she can get the fox for him later, as a sort of surprise…

Or, she realizes as Roy meets her eyes and tilts his head toward the window, maybe she can do that right _now. Benefits of partnership, I suppose._ She dips her head slightly, before turning away and starting down the street again, distracting Ling with a quiet commentary on the blanket he’d picked out—“Do you want your sheets and comforter to match it? Or maybe get a couple duvet covers you can mix and match with?”—as Roy slips into the toy store out of her peripheral.

Roy rejoins them about halfway through their exploration of the store, somehow without Ling even noticing he’s gone (or so it seems; he stayed relatively calm the whole time, at least). Riza casts a glance up at him as Ling squishes a soft, dove-gray comforter between his hands, seemingly pleased with it. “Where is it?” she murmurs, keeping one eye on the prince—former prince?—as he moves to examine pillowcases, fluffing out a pale yellow one. He seems much calmer with so many soft textures and far fewer people, wandering from display to display. He seems taken with the current “room” in particular, and she can’t keep a faint smile off her face as he sits tentatively on the edge of the display bed and runs his fingers along a pillowcase embroidered with bumblebees. _Really sticking with the honey theme, huh?_

Roy lifts up on of the shopping bags in response, looking downright smug. “Figured it’d be a better surprise if he found it when we’re putting the clothes away,” he explains, his expression softening as he looks toward Ling again. “Do you think it’s too much?”

_Do you think he’ll get overwhelmed, or scared, or run away? Do you think we’ll end up chasing him back there by trying to keep him safe? Do you think we’ll end up hurting him more than he’s already hurting?_ It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and already those questions are crowding her mind, making her worry more and more. She was that kid for so long—skittish, wary, terrified of chasing anyone who cared away but unable to believe anyone who was kind. She wants more than anything to be the person that little-her would have run to with open arms, would have trusted because she’d never hurt her. But she knows damn well she’d be frightened, too—of getting something good and losing it, or of being hurt.

But nothing would have made her go back to Berthold Hawkeye if she’d gotten the chance to run. Come hell or high water.

“I think it’s perfect,” she answers, watching Ling make his way back over to them, clutching the pillowcases patterned with bees. Something soft to hold, to cling to, given freely and given with kindness? That’s going to mean everything to him, she thinks. If he’s never had that before, never gotten love without strings attached, that gift—that he wants, that he didn’t ask for, that he thinks will make them leave—will absolutely mean the world to him.

Roy’s lips curve up slightly, relief clear on his face, before his eyes soften when he glances toward Ling again. Toward the child with the world on his shoulders and no one to hold him and more hurt than anyone knew before now. Riza can hardly stop herself from reaching forward and sweeping him into her arms, but she refrains. He’s already feeling anxious, even though he’s calmed a bit. She’s not going to make it worse.

They, of course, get the bee pillowcases, and the dove-gray comforter and sheets, and Ling’s look of awe when they buy them makes her want to _hit_ something. Or someone. Preferably the people who made him so confused and surprised when people took care of him or were gentle with him. That rage softens a little when he carries the stack of bedding out, arms wrapped tightly around the soft comforter and sheets like he thinks someone will take them away—he clings to them the whole way back, scooting sideways through the doorframe and glancing nervously back at them as Roy closes and locks the door, setting the bags down. “Let’s get these into your room and start making your bed,” he suggests, his voice gentle.

Ling nods quickly, before ducking into the hallway, and Riza reaches over to squeeze Roy’s hand lightly. “You’re good with him,” she remarks. That softer, kinder side doesn’t come out often at work, and for good reason. There’s no denying that he cares deeply and fiercely for everyone on the team (reunited, of course, now that Grumman was in power), but he’s also their boss, which means there’s only so much he can express without it reflecting poorly on them. With Ed, well, he fought any sort of affection or kindness from anyone but Alphonse fiercely, and Roy seemed happy to bite right back, to make sure that no one saw Ed as a pawn they could use against him—that no one would hurt Ed to get to him. 

Last night, though, none of those barriers were there. He’d held Ling without hesitation, offered him kindness and comfort and help when he needed it. And Ling responded _well,_ had melted under the tenderness and care, and it makes some cold, aching bit of her heart soften to see him being given that _safety_ he seemed to need so badly.

Roy sighs softly, squeezing her hand back before grabbing the bags. “I hope so,” he murmurs, before nudging her shoulder as they head for the no-longer-a-guest-room. “And you are too, you know. He seems to trust you already.”

She hums quietly, acknowledging the words before shaking her head. “He trusts that we’re better than whatever he’s running from,” she corrects, and Roy grimaces in understanding. “All we can do is be here for him until he _does_ trust us.”

“Well, _that_ is certainly something we’re capable of.”

Riza allows herself to smile, before laughing softly as he kisses her cheek and nudges Ling’s door open. She ducks in after him, noting the pile of sheets on the floor now includes the fitted sheet and pillowcases, which the poor thing seems to be struggling with a bit. “We can help you with that, darling,” she calls, and he glances up at them before yelping as the fitted sheet snaps back, rolling off the corners.

She swears his lower lip wobbles a bit, before he nods, scooting back; she sets down the bags and carefully fits one corner over the mattress, before showing him how to do the other side. They finish the other end together (Ling’s hands shake a little on the last one and he has to do it again, and he looks at her like he’s about to get yelled at—but she forces down the fury in her at that fearful look and smiles encouragingly, wraps her hands over his and shows him how to tug it down), Roy returning with the duvet insert fully wrapped in the soft gray cover he’d chosen. Ling manages the flat sheet (white, with a little pattern of bumblebees around the edges to match the pillowcases—she hadn’t noticed it during checkout, but it’s _adorable)_ perfectly well by himself, and they fluff the duvet and set the pillowcases over it.

It looks good when it’s done—soft, and welcoming, and warm. Riza watches as Ling reaches out to touch it with a cautious hand, smoothing down a little crease in the duvet cover, before he looks back over his shoulder at them.

His eyes are shining. Bright, and grateful, and… _happy._

He’s _happy._

“Why don’t you get your new blanket for it, too?” Roy suggests gently, holding out the bag containing it. “It matches the theme and everything.” Riza shoots him a _look,_ and he winks at her as Ling takes it cautiously and tugs out the mass of fluffy throw blanket. He wraps it loosely around his shoulders, and she sees his face scrunch up in confusion as he reaches into the bag again—

Ling’s eyes go round, and he whispers the tiniest, most tremulous _“Oh.”_ The paper bag falls to the ground with a little rustle, and his arms wrap loosely around the gift hidden inside—the stuffed fox from the toy store window. His hands shake a little, and Riza’s heart lurches up to her throat, tense and terrified that it’s too much, that he’ll balk and run away. If it’s too much too fast, she knows he’ll bolt.

But he doesn’t, miraculously. Ling curls around the stuffed animal, one hand still clutching it to his chest as the other swipes weakly at his eyes. “I—I said you didn’t have to,” he protests, looking between them like they’ll say _oh, you’re right_ and snatch it away. “I—I don’t need it—you d-didn’t have to, why d-did you—” He takes in a shuddering breath, before burying his face in the fluff of the fox with a near-inaudible sob.

Maybe that’s what spurs Riza forward, in the end—because moments later, she’s on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around Ling as he clings to a comfort she knows down to her very _bones_ that he’s never had. “You might not have needed it, darling, but you wanted it,” she murmurs softly, brushing his bangs out of his face. He lurches in her arms instead of flinching, chasing the contact, and her heart breaks as Roy settles down next to him and wraps an arm around his side. “And that’s enough for us. If it makes you feel safer, makes you feel happier, if it’s something we can give you, we will.”

“And it will never, ever come at a price,” Roy adds gently. “We’ll be here for you as long as you need us to be. Whether that’s a few weeks or a few years. We’re not going _anywhere,_ I promise.”

Ling’s breathing hitches, before he curls up even more, crying quietly, and Riza leans over to kiss the top of his head. “We’ll be right here,” she promises, and she marks it as a vow, as another quiet, fierce oath— _I’ll follow you into hell. And I’ll be right here to keep you safe_. One vow made to protect someone she’s known since they were both children, one to protect a child who never really got to _be_ a child.“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this chapter! It took four chapters, but we FINALLY have some cuddles going on, and there's going to be more to come! Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next time with some Ling POV <3 Thank you all for reading!


	5. sweet dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ling tries to sleep through the night without falling out of bed or spiraling into painful levels of introspection. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with some Ling POV for y'all! I hope you guys enjoy it, this chapter took a little longer to write, but god was it cathartic. Happy reading!

_I’m such a coward._

It’s the only thought circling in Ling’s mind as he curls around the fox plushie, staring up at the ceiling in the soft half-light. True to her word, Hawkeye had gotten him a little nightlight to plug into the outlet, keeping the shadows from reaching too far. It’s childish and _stupid_ of him to be scared of the dark at this point. He wasn’t before the Promised Day, hasn’t been since he was very, very small _(closed doors locks clicking shut clawing at the handle and begging to be let out, “Calm yourself, this behavior is unbefitting of a prince, master your fear, calm yourself, calm yourself—”),_ but since being trapped in his own head, the shadows make some old, disgustingly infantile fear rise up in his chest and start crying to be heard.

No one’s ever cared about it ‘til now, though. It can’t be that no one’s ever noticed—he’s heard his siblings’ mocking whispers, seen his mother’s disapproving look, the emperor’s cold disdain—but no one’s ever done anything about it. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised that Hawkeye and Mustang _did_ do something about it. He shouldn’t be, really. They’re nice to him, they’re _kind,_ they’re letting him stay here even though he threw up all over their door and started crying like a moron. He shouldn’t be shocked that they’re still trying to help him after _that._

He doesn’t think he would have been allowed to carry any sort of nightlight back ho—back in Xing, probably. Not that he needed one before Greed, but it was the principle of the thing. Fear was a weakness and an asset; fear in battle kept you alive, but being afraid of the dark was childish, and no heir to the throne stayed a child long in Xing. At best, it would have been mocked until he learned to hide the tremors and the fidgeting and the irrational urge to run until he found some sort of light source (which was ridiculous—he could _sense_ attackers before they actually struck, usually, but sometimes…sometimes it didn’t work, like when he couldn’t focus. And when he was afraid, he _really_ couldn’t focus). At worst, it would have been exploited, used to humiliate or control him, to _hurt_ him however they possibly could. And maybe he deserves that, for failing his people, for failing Fu and Greed (and Lan Fan, who’d cut her arm off for him, who’d kept fighting for him, who he’d left behind because he _ran away like a coward),_ but he’s pathetic and scared and he doesn’t _want_ either of those things.

But Riza Hawkeye just—looked at him and saw that he was afraid, even though he didn’t say it. Just saw that he was frightened and decided that she was going to alleviate his fear, and now he has a _nightlight._ His _own_ nightlight, the same way the sheets are his and the pillowcases are his and the new clothes are his and the—the _stuffed animal_ (another wave of guilt and grief and shame drowns him at the thought, that he needs a stuffed animal, that he _wants_ one, and his hands tighten around the fox) is his. They’re…gifts. Freely given, without expectations or payment or a thousand favors required to make it worth their while. They’re his things now. _His._

The thought is mind-blowing to him, and really, it shouldn’t be. He grew up in luxury. He’s the twelfth prince of Xing, wealthy enough that he’s never wanted for anything in his life. His childhood home was and remains the picture of opulence, there were servants waiting to answer his beck and call, he had good food and plenty of people trying to ensure his survival. He was rich, he had a shot at the throne, he had—he _has,_ he corrects himself (he doesn’t deserve Lan Fan, but she stayed with him, for some reason, even if he just made her life harder)— _bodyguards._ Shadows. Retainers. He hadn’t died young like some of his siblings. He had _everything._

But…but it came with strings. All of it. Those servants reported to his mother and masters, telling them every misstep, every mistake, whether it was as small as messing up his sword grip or as big as accidentally breaking a vase. His wealth didn’t replace the aching _loneliness,_ the feeling that he was something separate, a vessel that was meant to be filled up by the wishes of his so-called “advisors” without any realization that he was a person all by _himself._ That manor house felt (and still feels) more like prison than a home, every corner of every hallway playing host to some terrifying memory or monster, whether it was an assassination attempt or a punishment or a training session. That line to the throne only brought him pain, and fear, and—purpose, yes, but he wasn’t sure that purpose was even his to begin with.

 _Was it my thoughts, my wants, my life? Or was it just—_ theirs, _was it Mother’s, was it the lords’, was I just a means to an end?_

He knows the answer. He knows that parents aren’t supposed to let their children get hurt, or push them to hurt others. He remembers seeing Hohenheim shielding Ed from Father with his own body and nothing more, remembers being stunned by it—he knows about loyalty to the point of death, he knows that people have died for him _(Fu, Greed, how many others, how many have I ignored or excused, how many—)_ but he’s never seen someone who loves their children like—like _that._ Who loves them for simply being alive, and not because they can bring them honor or a throne or glory or a crown.

Yes, he knows the answer. He knows that he’s nothing without them, without the path they made for him, without the line to the throne. He knows he’s a coward for running, for being afraid. He _knows._ And if he thinks about it too much, he feels like he—he’ll cry. Or explode, or break down, or all of the above, and those things are even more ridiculous and stupid and he’s already cried more _here_ than he has in over a decade.

 _Because it’s safe to cry here,_ a little voice whispers. _Because you won’t get hurt for crying here._ He squeezes his eyes shut against it, curling up under the comforter as if it can block out the _They can’t find you, or hurt you, and there’s people who protect you for more reasons than you being a prince._

It’s true. He knows it’s true. But he can’t—he can’t bring himself to believe it will last. He’s leeching off of them without offering anything but a broken, spineless shell of a would-be king. They’ve been unduly generous after he’s done absolutely nothing for them, offering him this room, buying him clothes, buying him _bedding_ even though they already had stuff—and they say it’s _his._ He hasn’t earned it, hasn’t paid for it, hasn’t done a single damn thing for it or for them, and he knows that means it’ll go away. No matter what they say about it now, he’ll make a mistake or get scared of something stupid or just—crack and start wailing and wailing until the world stops _hurting_ so damn much.

It’ll come to an end at some point. It always does. Greed died, Fu died, Lan Fan…Lan Fan probably hates him, honestly. She’s too kind, too devoted to say it, but it’s his fault she was raised on the front lines, fighting a war against people separated only by a family name. It’s his fault she lost her arm. It’s his fault she lost her family. If he just…hadn’t existed, she never would have been tapped as his shadow, and she would have gotten to have an actual childhood, but instead she’s just a year older than him and bears the scars and wounds of a soldier decades older. He does, too, but it was by the accident of his own birth rather than someone else’s.

She gave up everything to ensure he got what he wanted, that his goal was attained, and now…

Now he’s run away. Now he’s hiding across the desert, clinging to a stuffed animal and curled up in sheets patterned with bumblebees and pretending there’s still some part of him that deserves to run. That deserves to be a child in the face of all this pain, when he lost that right as soon as he was capable of holding a sword. That deserves to be—to be _safe_ when Lan Fan is still there, still suffering for his cowardice.

Ling hopes she hates him after this, if she didn’t already. He deserves no better for abandoning her and being too scared, too hopeless, too _broken_ to fulfill his obligation (his duty, his destiny, and he turned away from it because he—he just _can’t)._ She deserves to get away from it far more than he does, to be _someone_ without having to chain herself to someone who’s all but useless without a crown.

She needs to hate him. She needs to. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she comes looking for him—if she still considers him worth following. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s _not_ , that the Promised Day broke something in him and the wound has been festering ever since, that taking the throne feels like stepping up to the executioner’s block. That the prince who would do anything for his people has become a selfish weakling and a monster and—

His breath hitches painfully in his chest and he blinks, realizing a moment later that he’s lost his battle against his tears. He scrubs uselessly at his face with a hand, accidentally smearing the stuffed fox with them; they come even faster when he feels the wet spots on the stuffed animal and he gags on a frustrated sob. _No—come on, you idiot, you can’t even stop crying for a single night? You—you can’t even—_ Another one pulls from his chest, and he buries his face in his brand-new pillows, his body trembling pathetically as he tries and fails to choke them back. All it does is make them pull at his chest even more, and his throat…his throat _burns._

 _Makes sense,_ is all he can think, crushing the plush fox to his chest and weeping into the pillow. Crying and running away and crossing a desert right after someone nearly succeeds in slitting your throat probably isn’t very good for his health. It’s not like it’s the first assassination attempt that almost succeeded (he has the scars to prove it), but these past months there’s just been so many _more,_ and this one…

He would have died. He almost _did_ die, and he’s not sure if that’s what sent him running…or if it was the realization that it would _never end._ That the throne he’d been chasing as a way to bring peace was his death sentence, the crown was a chain and a cell dragging him into empty silence. That maybe he’d survive today, but someone would try tomorrow, and the next day, and even if he managed to get all his siblings on board the Imperial Council and the rest of the clans would never accept it. Change took someone who could survive them, who could come out of their game stronger and more powerful. Someone who didn’t care.

Ling thought he’d be that person. He thought he wouldn’t be scared. He thought he’d finally be strong enough to forget what fear felt like. To just…forget it all. He thought that with the crown would come an evolution, that he’d finally be able to silence the frightened child curled in some fragment of his mind. The boy that was afraid of the dark and sharp things, who stayed up all night because one of his attendants promised to read him a story when his mother laughed at him for asking only to find that the attendant had been killed. It was easy to silence that child when he had a quest, when he could drown him in the search for the stone and pretend he didn’t exist. But now that child is clawing his way back out, has been since he returned to Xing, crying and begging him to _listen, why won’t you listen, they’re hurting us, why would you bring us back?_

He curls up even more, as tight as he can. His throat is burning, the echo of that slash across it straining and twisting like it was a new wound—like the best alkahestrist in all of Xing hadn’t set her hands on it, like his little sister hadn’t saved his life only for him to bolt out a window and never return. _Mei—_ he made a promise to her, too, and now here he is running away from it like some pitiful traitor. Away from everything he’s ever known, every promise he’s ever made.

He shouldn’t stay here, he realizes, dizzy from fear and pain and loss. He shouldn’t be here. This place isn’t—it’s beautiful, and warm, and Mustang and Hawkeye have already been kinder to him than any adult he knows, have the freedom to be kinder to him than any adult he _knew._ And Ling can’t stay with them, he _can’t_ have this, he’s already spitting on Lan Fan’s and Fu’s and Greed’s and _Mei’s_ sacrifices by running away, but if he lets himself stay here—if he stays, he’ll never want to leave. He already doesn’t. But he has to—he has to—

“Ling?”

He bolts upright at the voice, one hand instinctively swiping the knife he’d slipped from the kitchen drawer out from under his pillow and leveling it at the figure in the doorway. He’s ashamed of how his grip on the weapon shakes and the way his other hand clings to the stuffed fox, of the tears that continue to fall down his cheeks and the strangled whimpers he can’t swallow like the rest of his sobs. He’s even _more_ ashamed of the horror and terrible sympathy that flickers over Mustang’s face as he approaches—as if he really, truly _understands._ He probably does, and it makes Ling want to break down into his arms because someone, _someone_ gets it.

But that’s weak. And he’s already been so pitifully fragile in front of them. He can’t do it anymore.

He tells himself that even as Roy gently pries the kitchen knife out of his hand, as he _lets_ him take his weapon without slashing it over his wrist or slicing off a finger. And he lets him sit down on the bed next to him and put the knife on the bedside table (just within reach, as if he _knows_ that Ling needs that line of defense to feel secure, like he _knows_ that his world is crumbling to pieces and he’s falling apart with it). He lets his hand touch his face, half his brain screaming at him to _run, run away, you’re going to get hurt, he’ll hit you hurt you break you_ and the other half begging Mustang to _staystaystay, hold me, please, I don’t know what it feels like to be cared about like this but I want it, I really do._ He lets him wrap his arms around him, too gentle and too lose and too far away.

Ling wants to—he wants to cling to this bit of kindness, this gentleness. It’s weak and pathetic and he’s weak and pathetic and Fu would kill him, Greed would laugh, Lan Fan would be ashamed but he just wants—he wants—

“Oh, kiddo,” he hears Mustang soothe quietly, and a sob tears from his throat as he’s drawn into the embrace, shivering uncontrollably. “It’s okay. I know there’s a lot to adjust to right now. You’re being so, so brave.” A hand gently runs over his hair, careful not to tug on the little snags and knots, and Ling hates that he’s _grateful_ for that. Hates that he’s being called brave when he _ran away._

“N-no, I’m _not,”_ he chokes out, burying his face in something warm—Mustang’s shoulder, he realizes a moment later, and sobs again at how _stupid_ he’s acting. “I—I ran, I—m’a c-coward, I let everyone _d-down—” You have to hate me, too, you should hate me, I was—I was stupid and I acted like a baby and what if I do that again, what if I do that here, too, you’ll get mad and you’ll hate me—_

“Ling,” Mustang says, and he flinches at how stern his voice is, unable to keep himself from whining in protest when the colonel cups his face. Dark eyes flick over his face (he knows he looks awful, some people look nice when they cry, but he gets all red and blotchy and sticky and _gross)_ before Mustang brushes his bangs out of his face. “Kid, you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. It takes so much strength to leave the people who hurt you when they say they love you, and you _did._ You have an immeasurable courage within you.” Ling’s vision blurs, and he tries not to start crying all over again. “That doesn’t go away just because you need a little help right now.”

He fails.

He fails, and he bursts into tears, sobbing into Mustang’s shoulder and clinging to him and the plush fox like a lifeline. Mustang doesn’t push him away or mock him or even say anything about the mess he’s making of his shirt, just holds him and rocks him and lets him cry and cry and cry. Doesn’t do anything but whisper soothingly to him and rub his back and let him bawl into his chest for as long as he needs to, and it feels—good. It feels good, and he feels _safe._ Not whole, not fixed, but _safe._

Maybe Ling can’t stay here forever. Maybe they’ll end up hating him anyways, and maybe he deserves it, but maybe—

Maybe he can just… _be_ here. Just for a little bit. Be here, and be vulnerable, and be human.

And maybe if Ling is good enough, he won’t have to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you did, and I'll see you next time! Stay safe out there <3


	6. something soft and sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a quiet, peaceful morning after a tumultuous, emotional night. Roy, of course, expects that it won't last. 
> 
> But, well, for once...it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just an excuse to write roy carrying ling. let him get physical affection gdi he needs it. also happy 2021, everybody!

Roy wakes up to the sweet smell of pancakes and the sound of something sizzling, cracking open one eye and taking a moment to figure out where he is. _Not our room, this is…ah._ His gaze flicks over the stuffed fox peeking out from under the blankets and the big honeycomb-patterned throw hanging half-off the bed, and then to the child curled up tight against his chest. He blinks slowly, letting the memories of last night settle—of hearing Ling crying quietly in the night, of gently taking the knife from his hands and holding him close and letting him just _let go._ He hadn’t been able to bear leaving him after he’d cried himself to sleep, leaving his hands tangled tightly in his shirt as he tucked him back under the covers before drifting off next to him.

He stares down at the dark head pressed into his chest, the scar-covered hands that are still gripping his shirt like Roy will disappear if he lets go, before humming softly to himself. _Riza must be making breakfast,_ he realizes, glancing over at the little clock he’d bought for Ling’s dresser. _9:00, huh…poor kid probably needs more sleep, but he shouldn’t be missing meals._

“Kiddo,” he starts gently, nudging Ling as he sits up. “Breakfast is gonna be ready soon. Think you can get up and eat something?” He tilts his head down at the kid as he squirms under the covers silently, before chuckling. “Riza’s pancakes aren’t worth missing, bud.”

There’s another little shudder, before Ling tilts his head up and whines at him. _Whines._ Like a normal kid that doesn’t want to get up for school or for breakfast or for anything, a kid who feels safe and warm and doesn’t want to leave. And that sticks out to Roy, jumps out at him, because Ling feels safe right now. Maybe it’s only because he’s not quite awake yet and doesn’t realize what’s going on, but he’s still holding onto Roy like he trusts him.

Roy knows he doesn’t deserve it, hasn’t earned it, but it eases some hole in his chest anyway. “Buddy, you can either let go of my shirt and get up, or I’ll carry you out to breakfast,” he teases lightly, before snorting softly when Ling’s fingers curl into his shirt even more. One eye cracks open, still red-rimmed and puffy from the previous night, but looking entirely displeased with his options and more than a little disbelieving. Probably about the carrying thing, but still.

It’s…downright adorable, to be honest.

“I mean it, kiddo,” he murmurs, nudging him gently. “I’ll give you a couple more seconds to let go, okay? Otherwise you’re going up with me.” Ling grumbles wordlessly at that, digging his face into his shirt a moment later and curling up under the comforter again. “You can go back to sleep after you eat something, I promise.” If he genuinely doesn’t want to eat, then he’ll confront that in a moment (it would be alarming, though, given his usual appetite), but if he’s just…well, being a teenager, Roy is very much equipped to deal with it. He’d honestly rather handle a grumpy teenager than the broken, fragile boy from last night—well, rather wasn’t the right word, but grumpy is something he _knows_ after watching Ed go from a tiny, angry preteen to a taller-but-still-angry teenager. He knows how to poke and prod at “grumpy” to make someone feel comfortable or trust that he won’t hurt them. Crying, scared, and pointing a knife at him…that’s a whole new level that Roy is still learning.

He hopes he has it down soon, anyways.

“Alright,” he says aloud after a moment, slipping an arm beneath the kid and hoisting him up into his arms. Ling’s eyes snap open, his mouth forming a round “o” of shock as he stares at him, and Roy hides a smug grin. He’s no Armstrong, but he’s got some strength to spare. That, and the poor thing is distressingly light. “Everything’s okay, kiddo, see?” He shifts him in his arms, settling him against one side as Ling stares up at him with wide eyes. “You can come back and go right back to sleep after you eat something, I promise. Doesn’t have to be much. Take it from me—skipping meals just…isn’t healthy.” He’s done it several times because of work, and it’s rarely a good option. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and all that.”

Ling _squeaks,_ glancing down at the ground and then back up at him frantically. “You—wha— _how?”_ he manages after a moment, even though his hands don’t loosen. “I—no _fair.”_

Roy nearly laughs at that, because it’s such a kid thing to say—that notion of fairness, even though he knows Ling doesn’t really believe in it (which hurts, because kids are supposed to have that concept of give and take, of—well, equivalent exchange, even if it isn’t true. They’re not supposed to be exposed to the harsh reality of the world, not as deeply as Ling has been). “I’ll put you down if you want, kiddo, but you do have to eat something. Just a little.”

He fully expects Ling to tell him that he wants to be put down, or to twist out of his arms—he knows damn well that he’s capable of it, after all, the kid is smart and fast and no doubt knows exactly how to escape any sort of pin—but instead, he curls up, leaning hesitantly against him. Roy beats down the shock before it manages to escape onto his face, his heart going soft and gooey as he tucks his face into his side without a word. _No wonder he’s so clingy right now. He’s probably still shaken up from last night._

“S’okay,” Ling mumbles, the words muffled against his side, before peeking up at him. “Y-you’re not…mad?”

There’s a thousand ways Roy could read into that statement. _I’m not mad that you’re scared? I’m not mad that you’re having a perfectly normal reaction to escaping over a decade of trauma and abuse? I’m not mad that you had a panic attack last night? I’m not mad that you need help?_ Each one is more heartbreaking than the last, illustrating more and more that Ling doesn’t believe he’s allowed to process his grief and trauma and abuse, that he’s weak for not being able to swallow it and silence himself again. Something in him cracks at the thought—that someone has drilled this bullshit into his head until he believes it so wholeheartedly that he falls apart when he _fails_ to live up to that impossible standard—and he shifts his grip, settling him more firmly against his side. “Mad? I’m proud of you, kiddo. It takes a lot of courage to admit you need help.”

Ling’s eyes go wide at that, before he tucks his face into his shirt again without a word. Roy takes it as the dismissal it is and makes his way down the hall and into the kitchen, smiling wryly when Riza glances up at them as she flips a pancake with the spatula. “How’s he doing?” she asks softly, glancing at Ling and—well, evidently presuming that he’s not in a talking mood. The hand that isn’t on the spatula reaches up towards his cheek, but pauses before she can touch him. “I know last night was…rough.”

Rough, Roy thinks, is a bit of an understatement. Granted, it’s only the second night, which means the only direction things can go from here is _up,_ but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get that image out of his head: Ling choking on his tears, drowning in them, pointing a knife at him because he’s scared and hurt and all he knows to expect from the adults around him is pain. It makes something in him _roar_ with rage, and he closes his eyes as Ling shifts in his arms, trembling. “Tired,” he murmurs. “But I’m sure we’ll be okay.” He glances down at the kid as Riza flips another pancake expertly, her unerring precision and aim as clear in this as it is on the field. “Kiddo, do you want to hop down and say good morning, or are you good where you are?”

Ling stirs a little, before blinking up at him. “I…” His voice trails off, and he chews on his lip for a moment before waving to Riza awkwardly. “Morning. S-sorry about—about last night, I—sorry.”

Riza’s eyes soften as Roy carefully sets Ling down, giving his hand a gentle squeeze when his fingers stay knotted in his shirt before he seems to pry himself off. “Darling, you have nothing to apologize for,” she says firmly, flipping the last pancake onto the stacked platter that sits on the counter. “You never have to apologize for being scared, or needing help, or just wanting someone to be there for you. Not here.”

Roy switches off the stove as she steps away from it to gently brush Ling’s bangs out of his face, pretending not to hear the quiet sniffle the boy lets out as he sets the skillet in the sink to cool before he cleans it. He carries the plate of pancakes over to the little breakfast nook, setting them down in the middle and very pointedly not listening to their hushed conversation as he grabs silverware and napkins for the three of them. He fills three glasses with water, rummaging around in the fridge for the orange juice—he’s not sure whether Ling likes orange juice or not, but he’s got that and grapefruit—and filling three smaller cups with it. By the time he has them all at the table, those quiet whispers have stopped, Riza carrying over a bowl of fresh fruit and gently directing Ling towards the places for the butter dish and the syrup jar. He holds them like they’re made of glass—they are breakable, to be fair, but not so easily shattered—and sets them down carefully, and—

There. The tiniest flick of his eyes towards him and Riza, the slightest flash of fear and of pleading and of want.

_Did I do well? Tell me I did well._

That deep-seated need to be told that he’s okay, that he’s done something good without being struck down for not being good _enough_ —Roy knows that feeling. Saw it in the mirror for years after Aunt Chris took him in, clung to every kind word he was given after being starved of it for so long. His sisters had showered him with love both verbal and physical, Chris had given him every bit of affection she knew how, and yet he’d still been nearly insatiable when it came to that hollow, aching thing inside him. It wasn’t even that he’d been treated with any particular cruelty—just neglected, like most kids left in orphanages in this system.

Ling, however…

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s been through, that’s for sure. He’s given nothing away except that he’s scared and doesn’t know what to do, that he’s come to them for safety. From the limited information he has, Ling showed up on his doorstep hurt, scared, and desperate, and he knows that the emperor and Ling’s siblings didn’t treat him particularly well. And from what he knows about the everlasting war of succession in Xing, Ling isn’t used to living in a time of peace (or at least, a time when he’s not directly, constantly in danger). The heirs of Xing are always at risk, always in danger and anything less than perfection might well lead to their demise, and to their clan’s failure to take the throne.

Failure is inconceivable. Weakness is all but equivalent to death. It’s no wonder Ling is desperate for positive reinforcement, for any sign that he’s good enough to…Roy doesn’t even _know._ Be loved? Treated like a human being? _Worthy?_

Either way, he’s looking for reassurance, affirmation, _kindness,_ and Roy will give it to him gladly. “Thank you so much for helping out, kiddo,” he murmurs, reaching down and gently ruffling dark hair; he’s finally brushed it out, and it’s… _long,_ falling nearly to his waist. Ling jolts when he touches him, but doesn’t pull away, brown eyes snapping open and staring up at him anxiously. “Great job.”

Ling’s eyes _shine_ at that, for a moment, wide and shocked and a little desperate—before he ducks his head, scooting over onto his bench as Riza sets down the plates on each neatly arranged placemat. Roy’s heart twists a little, but he doesn’t dare push it, instead giving Riza a playful bow as she approaches. “Your seat, my lady.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, but the words are fond, and he sits down next to her with a quiet hum as Ling starts to cut into his pancakes. There’s less talking than yesterday, each of them focused on their own plate, but…well, Ling looks calmer, and that means things are getting _better._

He’ll heal from this, Roy knows. It might take months, years, but he’ll heal from this. He just needs support on the way there—support and comfort and…well, love. And regardless of how unqualified he and Riza might be to provide that, Ling came to them looking for it. He’s going to do his damnedest to provide.

_We’ll be fine. Even if it takes forever. We’ll be fine._

He watches Ling take a bite of the pancake, sees his face light up, and smiles.

_Yeah._

_We’ll be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter--next up, more Riza and Ling bonding! It's going to be very fluffy and cute, I promise (I think we all need some fluff after recent events). Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next time! Stay safe out there <3


	7. chocolate chips and dish soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, Riza and Ling handle the dishes while Roy is otherwise occupied. Unfortunately, the morning's peace isn't holding together well, and neither is Ling's mental state. Neither is Riza's determination to let him take it at his own pace.
> 
> They're working on it. They all are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're back with some hard-hitting angst! next chapter likely won't let up either, but there will be even more comfort, i promise. enjoy!~

It’s astonishing, the switch between the sharp-witted, playful, _regal_ young man she remembers dropping into a stolen car with a tied-up Gluttony and the quiet, anxious (almost _fragile)_ kid that hesitantly carries his dishes over to the sink and asks (as though he expects to be made fun of for it) how to wash them. She shows him how, of course, he’s likely never been in a position where he had to wash the dishes himself, and thanks him for it—and the way his eyes widen when he’s thanked just about breaks her heart. It’s like he doesn’t even understand it, doesn’t think himself worthy of it, and that crushes some part of her soul as she watches him wash and rinse the plates.

He’s so…young. Ling is so _young._ Even she was older than him when she entered the Academy, when she was sent to the front lines of Ishval to drown the world in blood. Fifteen isn’t even old enough to drink, to drive, to attend universities. Fifteen is when kids should be gossiping about crushes and playing with their friends and laughing together, safe and loved and unaware of the injustices of the world. They should be worrying about missing homework and complaining about tests, not…not _this._

Children had won this war against Father and the homunculi for them—children who should have gotten to grow up safely, happily, without worrying about the fate of the entire world. Children she had failed from the moment she’d walked into her own war, from the moment innocent blood had stained her hands. The blood of children. And now here she is, with one of those children who’d been born into a war, who’d been born a _soldier,_ with scars so deep and agonizing that no one had been able to _see_ them.

Those scars are ripped open, bleeding again, and now…

Now the boy beneath the mask is revealed—a frightened, nervous, _terrified_ boy, a once-prince and king-to-be who doesn’t know how to confront who he’s supposed to be with who he wants to be. Who, if she’s right, doesn’t _know_ who he wants to be without the crown. Who feels alone, and scared, and _lost._

Who came to the door covered in blood that he still hasn’t explained, sobbing as though his heart was about to break. And though he hasn’t said it, Riza can read between the lines, see the pressure and the fear that’s crushed him for so long, remembers the deadly glances from his fellow princes and princesses (his _siblings),_ the icy stare of the regal woman who touched his shoulder, the way he curled up and hid himself under his father’s shrewd black eyes. She _knows_ how that feels, the deadly push to uphold a legacy, the feeling of being used and raised as a tool.

_My greatest creation. Born to carry on my work._ Needles in her skin, ink in her veins—and that was as the daughter of an alchemist, not as an emperor, pitted against dozens of other children and under threat from the day you were born.

_What did they tell you?_ she wants to ask as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of syrup, brow furrowed as he pours his concentration into the task. _What did they say to you? That you are worthless without them? That you are unwanted, unloved? What poison did they pour down your throat, what lies did they tell you?_

_You deserved none of it, little one. You deserve_ none of it.

She doesn’t know why she’s so desperate to tell him that, doesn’t know why this _need_ to take care of him is rearing its head. Maybe it’s that no one ever told her she didn’t deserve her father’s coldness, didn’t deserve to be turned into a carrier of his genius rather than a person in her own right. Maybe it’s because no one has ever taken care of Ling, because he believes he doesn’t deserve it—or because it’s so painfully clear that he’s never _had_ it before.

She takes the dish from him to dry it, carefully swiping the towel over it and settling it on the dishrack. “Ling,” she says after a moment, glancing over at him; he jolts, the glass he’s rinsing slipping in his hands. He catches it with a gasp, snatching it to his chest and staring up at her with wide eyes, hands trembling. There’s terror in his gaze, bright and overwhelming, and Riza’s heart sinks even as grim understanding settles in her chest.

_Of course he’s afraid—of course he is._ As well as breakfast went, he’s still adapting to a new situation, still dealing with that instinctive fear, still trying to find the boundaries. He’s looking for what makes them tick, what’s going to make them upset with him, what’ll finally make the other shoe drop and reveal exactly what they think of him. He still thinks they’re going to hurt him, that they’re going to leave, and she doesn’t blame him for it for a second. “Oh, darling,” she soothes, prying the glass out of his hands and setting it on the rack to dry. “It’s okay, little love.” She hardly knows where the nicknames are coming from, but she wants so badly to hold him and tell him _you’re alright, you’re very brave, you’re being oh-so strong._ She knows better than to do that, though; as skittish as he is, grabbing onto him with no warning will only frighten him more. “Even if you dropped it, it would be okay, alright? We would just sweep up the glass and make sure you were okay. No one here is going to shout at you or hit you or be angry at you for making a mistake.”

Ling’s lips turn down at the corners almost imperceptibly, brow furrowing in disbelief before he ducks his head and nods slowly. “Okay,” he mumbles, clearly of the opinion that it is very much not okay and that she’s lying through her teeth. She doesn’t mind—in his position, she’d be convinced of the very same. “Still didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t.” She strokes his hair with a gentle hand, softening when he tips his head into the touch (seemingly without even realizing it, poor thing). “I was just going to ask if you wanted to bake something with me. I have the day off, and I think it’d be a fun thing to do, right?”

Ling stares at her, looking bewildered, before fiddling hesitantly with the hem of his shirt—he’s wearing the thick, soft butter-yellow sweater he picked out, she realizes, and she finds herself smiling softly at him. “I’ve never…I’ve never done anything like that before,” he says after a moment, his voice very small and quiet. “I—I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

“You don’t have to be good at it, darling,” Riza promises, turning off the faucet and setting the hand towel down. Something in her roars at how he’s been convinced that his worth is decided by how good or bad he is at a task—at how he so fervently believes that he can fail at being human, at deserving love. “No one starts off being good at it—I certainly didn’t. But even if that wasn’t the case, it’s just supposed to be something _fun._ It’s not a competition or anything to fight for, little one.”

Ling’s eyes widen at the nickname, but she doesn’t dare take it back. She watches as his fingers curl more tightly in the hem of his sweater, tugging on it quietly, before he blinks at her slowly. “…W-what…what are we making?”

Riza hides a triumphant smile, before humming thoughtfully. Cakes will probably be too complicated for now, given that he’s so anxious about making about making a mistake. Cupcakes, while smaller, present a similar problem. Something small like cookies or brownies would probably be a nice safe bet, all things considered. “Chocolate-chip cookies, maybe?” she suggests. “Those are nice and easy, and they usually taste good no matter what you do.”

Ling blinks slowly, before nodding hesitantly, though she doubts he’d really protest if he didn’t want to make cookies. Which is terrible in and of itself, because he believes himself unworthy of any agency, that all his privileges (and she nearly laughs at that, laughs hysterically, because this poor boy considers a warm bed and steady meals and clean clothes _privileges,_ not inherent rights owed to any human being—any _child_ first and foremost) will be taken away as soon as he steps out of line. She reaches over to squeeze his hand with a small smile, and his eyes widen as he stares at their joined hands; she hums softly, going to let go, but…his fingers curl tight around hers and he shuffles closer, eyes fixed on the floor.

Desperate, she realizes, and her heart breaks, for comfort. Desperate and aching to be held—she wonders how many times someone’s held him with love, with care, with kindness if a gesture as simple as holding his hand makes him cling to her in such distress. It’s only been three days, he doesn’t know them well at all, but he’s holding onto them like letting go will mean death or worse. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around him and gently cupping the back of his head with a hand, pulling him down to rest on her shoulder. He squeaks, stiff and embarrassed, before leaning into her embrace with a quiet, low noise of distress. “You’ve had a very, very hard time, haven’t you?”

“N-no—no, I was just…” Ling’s voice cracks, and she hums soothingly as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. “I-it—it’s normal, m’just…weak.”

Riza’s heart breaks at the words, and she runs her fingers slowly through his hair, humming soothingly. “You are _not_ weak,” she whispers. “You fought Wrath to a standstill with one hand while carrying someone you loved. You stood up to Greed when anyone else would have had their soul crushed. You suffered, and you survived, and you came out strong enough to ask for _help._ And needing that help now, Ling, doesn’t make you weak, doesn’t take away from any of the things you’ve done.” She takes a slow breath— _this might be moving too fast, it’s only been a few days—_ before barreling onwards. “Whoever taught you that help means weakness, that you are _weak_ for wanting or needing it, was _wrong.”_

Ling lets out a tiny, choked noise, shaking his head desperately. “No—no, I’m the p-prince, I have to b-be emperor, that’s _what I am,_ t-that’s—”

“You are a _child.”_ Riza’s voice shakes more than she wants it to, but she can’t contain the grief, the _pain_ in her heart when she sees him so distraught. “You are a child, you are _fifteen_ and the fate of an entire empire should _never_ have been on your shoulders. Regardless of your status, of the war of succession. You were a child when they told you it was kill or be killed, and you are still a child now, you were a child when your body was turned into a puppet for a force you didn’t understand and you were a child when your guardian and your shadow sacrificed his life and her arm for you and you were a child when you fought a man who orchestrated the deaths of millions. And I am not,” she adds fiercely, “saying this to take away from any of what you have done, because you are and have been absolutely incredible and brilliant and _brave,_ and I am endlessly impressed by what you have done. That doesn’t change the fact that you _never should have had to do it.”_

Ling stares at her, brown eyes wide and wet, his hands curled into her shirt and trembling uncontrollably. “B-but,” he starts, sounding so unbearably young. “But—but _Ed_ d-did all that and—and _he_ wasn’t scared.”

Riza—

Riza doesn’t think she can breathe, for a moment.

Of course he’d compare himself to him—how could he not? He’d likely never heard the phrase “it’s not a competition” because for him, it had _been_ a competition for centuries. She doesn’t know the details, but she’s done her homework—the war of succession is near-constant, and always brutal. He would have tried to measure up to his siblings, younger and older alike, and when his siblings weren’t there…he compared himself to Ed. Ed, the prodigy, unmatched in intelligence and compassion and resilience. Ed, who’d thrown himself into battle over and over for years so his brother could have a shot at a normal life again. Ed, who was possibly the worst person to ever compare oneself to, because he was so good and so strong and so fearless that no one could ever catch up.

Yet he was the only friend Ling had—the only _peer_ he had that wasn’t dead or his subordinate. Add in the fact that Ling’s entire life has been a competition for a throne, to prove that you were the one without flaws, without weaknesses, that you were the perfect king. That doesn’t—wouldn’t—go away just because he crossed the border, because he wasn’t around those people anymore.

And Ed…Ed is the worst person in the world for that to ever be focused on, because he will always be stronger somehow, bolder somehow, brighter somehow. He was also the only one that Ling could latch onto at that time, that his mind could convince belonged to that endless race.

“Little love,” she whispers, waiting until his eyes are on her, stroking his hair gently. She smiles tiredly at him, before continuing, _“He should never have had to do that either.”_

His eyes go wide, terrified and shocked and confused. Riza keeps talking, unable to stop, everything she wishes she could have said to and done for the Elrics pouring out— _I couldn’t protect them, but I can protect you now._ “They should never have had to choose between joining the military and living with the result of their grief, they never should have been left alone long enough to do commit human transmutation, they never should have had to be soldiers when they should have been allowed to be children. And if that is true for them, it _must_ be true for you.” Because Ed and Al, regardless of what Riza thinks, will swear up and down until their dying day that it was their fault, their mistake, their price—but Ling was thrown into a war merely by being born, being _alive._

He’s shaking in her arms, falling apart at the seams, and she hates herself for saying the things that pushed him so far, even though she knows he desperately needs to hear them. Riza strokes her thumb over his cheek tenderly as he draws in a small, shuddery breath, unable to keep himself from trembling. “I—I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t know, I d-don’t know how to—” he sucks in another breath, louder and rasping painfully in his chest, and she pulls away in alarm; his face crumples almost immediately and her heart twists as he scrubs at his eyes. “I—I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she soothes. “Cry as much as you need to. Scream, wail, cling to us, we’ll be there. We won’t leave just because you need to cry, or be held. We won’t leave, period. Ever. Understand?”

Ling’s face scrunches up even more, misery and disbelief written all over him, before he nods with a pathetic-sounding sniffle. “Okay,” he chokes out, before hiccupping—a tiny, broken sound—and nodding furiously. “Okay—okay.”

It’s not okay, not by a long shot, but Riza’s already pushed hard enough. “Come on,” she encourages, squeezing his hand before tugging him over to the shelf of rarely-touched cookbooks. “Let’s make some cookies.”

The hesitant smile he gives her isn’t much, is barely there…but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed that chapter! it was very interesting to write--and speaking of ed, we'll actually hear from him next chapter! though whether it's good news or not remains to be seen ;) leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I hope you guys enjoyed this! It popped into my head out of nowhere and I wrote it as fast as I could, lol. Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you guys next time!


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